your head about that direction. I fancy you
would scarcely be the description of article for
them, you see."

In many of those people in whom personality,
or this organic egotism is strong, a sort of
cruel truth breaks out, almost "brutal," as the
French put it. But it is only a logical development,
and really almost unconscious. From it
the white-haired ensign suffered. And there
was silence in consequence for a few moments.
Captain Fermor, with his pipe now fairly alight,
was still thinking how placidly he could turn a
bit of quiet gentlemanly sarcasm. A tranquil
smile was mantling about the tube of his pipe,
and broke the blue clouds, like a little human
sun.

"I suppose," he said, after a time, and taking
his pipe out to look at it narrowly—"I suppose
that strong-built brute will be entered for the
steeple-chase?"

"Yes," said the youth shortly, and there was
a wounded modulation in the key. But the
captain, wrapped up in his egotistic cloak, had
now travelled miles from any results his speech
might have produced.

"And I suppose," added the captain, "that
fellow Banbury—Hanbury—will ride him?"

"Yes," said the youth, a little more heartily,
and trying to forget his hurt, for his soul was in
horses. "O, he'll ride! They'll be very good
this year. I shall ride."

The captain smiled. Here was another
opportunity for stropping his satirical blade.

"Of course they will be good, because you
ride, eh? You'll draw the whole country. Don't
you see what you lay yourself open to by that
loose form of speech? I call your attention as a
friend. Of course it's no affair of mine."

"Yes, I see! But they are to be first rate. I
have entered Kathleen, and Taylor has entered
Malakoff. I am in already for the Welter—all
gentlemen riders, you know."

Again the captain began to whet his razor.
"Then they must let no natives enter. Good
gracious! what a lot of cads will start." And
again he smiled to himself. It was good
practice turning this raw child to profit.

"Brian is to start!" said Young Brett, still on
the horses. "And Brent will ride him himself."

"Ah! that is a horse," said Captain Fermor,
taking his pipe out of his mouth with real
interest. "How he will cut up the local fellows!
And a man that can ride. He'll give them a
lesson." Here Captain Fermor took a weary
stretch, as if life under this accumulation of
monotony was indeed a burden.

And yet, taking the average of his days, and
the duties with which he filled in his days, he
seemed to enter into its current with something
far short of indifference. The truth was, this was
only the fruit of his extravagant egotism. For
him the genuine race of the world was the race
that wore uniforms; that is to say, the men whose
uniform was scarlet. Other soldiers of other
countries were mere impostors, theatrical fellows
with gaudy coats. It was notorious there was but
one real "service" known, which was the British.
Thus, the bulk of English mankind who did not
bear commissions were cagots, and the onus of
respectability lay upon them. Again, as with
men so with things. Town was the centre, the
city of true metal. Town things, bought in
Town shops—bought, too, at the places where
"our fellows" were accustomed to buy—the
true Procrustean gauge to which all things must
be stretched or fitted—this was more of our
captain's creed. Yet he was a gentlemanly
devotee, and did not rant these tenets; but they
were so kneaded into his constitution, air, and
deportment, that everything he said, and
everything he did, seemed to whisper an article of
this faith.

    CHAPTER II. THE MANUELS.

IN the window of that miniature house in
Raglan-terrace, where Young Brett had seen the
admired horse standing, were the ladies of the
Manuel family. The house was number four,
in a terrace which started magnificently,
intending a swoop of at least a street long, but
had halted at number four, through a sudden
spasm. In the window was Mrs. Manuel,
a short handsome olive-toned elderly lady,
whose hair was iron-grey, and whose eyes
travelled sharply from east to west, and back
again. There was also Violet, her second
daughter; and Pauline, her eldest, now flashing
out in the sunlight, was framed in the window.
There admiring Young Brett saw her, in a window
to herself, looking out at the noble horse,
and fallen into a true statuesque attitude—into
which she fell unconsciously some dozen times
in the day.

Young Brett looked wistfully, and languished
to know her. But for him, and for such as him,
number four was as a convent of the very
strictest order. The second daughter, whom they
called Violet, was not dark, but round and full,
with a strange bright glistening in her eyes, which
were large and "fine." About her altogether there
was a sense of rich colour, with a sort of
devotional air.

The hall door was open as Young Brett
passed, and coming out with Hanbury, to feel
that great horse all over, with that wonder and
respect which foreigners have for great English
horses, was a son of the house, with black glossy
hair that shone and curled—with a faint olive
tint about the cheeks, square heavy eyebrows,
bluish shading on cheeks and upper lip, where
moustache would later ripen and flourish, and
a thoughtful business air beyond his years.

He felt and patted the stout strong horse all
over. Then Hanbury, an over-healthful, pink-
cheeked, open-faced man of the country, mounted
into his saddle with some pride, for he knew that
eyes were upon him, and took off his hat to the
windows, with an emphasis towards that on the
left, where the full-eyed girl was with her mother.
Then made his horse amble and plunge gently,